“Did de robber steal anything?”
“No.”
“Whar is Hopey at?”
“The robber may have kidnapped her.”
“You’s prankin’ wid me, Marse John,” Vinegar howled. “Dar ain’t no one robber could kidnack Hopey. Dat wus a band of robbers—I surmises about fawty in de gang.”
Vinegar fumbled with his hat, and his breath came and went in labored gasps.
“I’m glad de robbers never stole nothin’,” he sighed. “Dat house am plum’ full of pretty doodads, an’ ef Marse Tom wus to come home an’ find dem rooms empty, I’d hab to esplain to him. An’ Marse Tom cain’t onderstand nothin’—when a nigger esplains.”
Vinegar shook his head in great perplexity over this particular white man’s mental fulness. One of the mysteries of his life was that he had never put anything across with Colonel Gaitskill. He knew the end from the beginning, and all the ramifications thereof, and with him, Vinegar’s explanations never explained. They merely caused complications.
“Whut is us gwine do now, Marse John?” he asked.
“I’m going to leave you to guard this house until daylight,” Flournoy told him. “Then I’ll come and examine it more carefully.”